


Where do we draw the line

by visbs88



Series: Claymore Short Stories [2]
Category: Claymore
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gore, Introspection, Missing Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7050094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visbs88/pseuds/visbs88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last few days of a journey on the line between monsters and humans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Humans

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this story has been way more difficult, complicated and interesting than what I had predicted. I had planned it to be a simple and quick one-shot, a long time ago, but halfway through it I have realized that it would have worked better as the three-chapter mini-long that it will actually be, and so here we go. I love with all of my heart those amazing characters that Isley and Raki are, and I went through hell attempting to create an in-character and realistic portray of them without being boring; and, believe me, capturing all their incredible psychological depth is a big challenge, in which I'm not sure I succeeded, but at least I tried my best, I can swear. Priscilla is mostly left in the background, and it has been a conscious choice: I'm certain that there's a lot to say about her in these contexts, but it simply wasn't neither my goal nor my intention. I'm also aware of the fact that the fondest fans will catch some very evident parallels, together with references to the last chapters of the manga: take them partly as tributes, partly as mere will to remain as close as possible to the atmosphere and style of Claymore, which I personally always find so touching. And now that my sermon is over, I can just wish myself luck and hope you will appreciate this work of mine, which has literally drawn away a good slice of my time and energies XD enjoy, thank you for passing by!

That really looked like a nice lad, the man thought.

A handsome face, clean as you could seldom see any among the wayfarers; a courteous and kind smile, and big, sweet, bright eyes. He carried a sword on his back, and he seemed muscular enough to use it, but who could blame him, during those times? Anyways, it wasn't his business. He was just the man selling sugared apples, and he handed one of them to the boy, receiving a couple of coins and a smile in exchange.

– Thank you very much – the young fellow had the manners to add as well. So funny, those short locks of brown hair that pointed towards everywhere in the air.

– Thanks to you – the seller answered, smiling back, jovially. He was about to wish him to “enjoy his time in town”, like he did to every costumer passing by, when he noticed, by chance and for the first time, the small figure next to him.

A dark cloak, a hood on her eyes and face. A tiny hand holding to the larger and stronger one of the boy. Not much to judge, but the man was a good man.

– Oh! – he exclaimed, a little surprised – Would your little sister like anything?

His kind expression wavered for one instant, while that clear gaze of his cooled off.

Had he offended him? Was that his daughter? Or maybe a very scrawny son?

Then the boy chuckled. He sounded a little embarrassed, a little stilted, but it still was a pleasant laughter.

– No, sir – he replied, a polite and slightly impertinent light in those pupils, which at the same time were a bit more serious and detached than before – She doesn't really do sweets. I'm the big brother that doesn't set a good example.

The man laughed, ready to hear very soon the beginning of some whimpering from the child, exactly like the ones that usually followed the excuses of a mother not willing to spend money – “ _We're in a hurry!_ ”, the favorite above all, but also “ _He doesn't really want it_ ” was quite popular.

That kid, anyways, didn't say a word.

And the boy winked.

– Very nice of you, though – he smiled, more genuine, merrier – Have a good day. Let's go, Priscilla.

– Have a good day too, lad!

But he had already managed very well to disappear into the crowd of the market, taking his quiet little sister with him.

An odd guy, maybe, but so well-mannered.

A maiden with rosy cheeks stepped forward to ask for sugared apples, and the weird couple vanished forever from the thoughts and memories of a human as ordinary as all the others.

 

 

It appeared like they had arrived in town in a particularly lively day, Raki thought, taking a bite of the snack he had bought himself. Recently, after years spent avoiding them, Isley seemed to have an odd preference for such places.

Priscilla's hand held tight in his, Raki's eyes calmly wandered on colorful activities that once would have made him a little more enthusiast – that once would have had exactly the same taste of that apple: pleasant, reassuring, vivid. A juggler performing in front of some children, for example. Stands filled with garish fruits and vegetables, then, laughter and chatter, nice statuettes for sale for who wanted to decorate their comfortable homes; shops selling clothes and merchants selling silk which passed by ignored by most, because nobody was actually rich enough to afford luxury. There were endless sounds, movements, smells, noises. Almost too many, after the deep silence of the woods.

In the past, Raki's feelings about it would have been reversed. Strange. Or maybe not, knowing what he knew.

“ _With this crowd and everything, Clare could be here without finding me_ ”.

Was the opposite true as well? Yes, being realist. But he liked to think it wasn't – that an itch on his nape, a weight in his stomach, _something_ would have warned his instinct to keep his eyes open. Anyways, he wasn't sensing anything like that, and he didn't feel like that was worth  worrying too much about, not there, not that day.

Suddenly, a man walking in the opposite direction bumped into his shoulder, taking him by surprise, and making him drop his sugared apple, still just half-eaten.

The fruit rolled away in the dust, and disappeared among the feet of busy citizens in a rush, while Raki was turning to see who had hit him: a rubicund man who was laughing loudly and didn't stop to apologize. He and his friends seemed rather tipsy, although it was barely late afternoon.

“ _Is there perhaps a festival going on?_ ”, Raki asked himself, but then he shrugged, patient, and he went to keep walking.

Priscilla, however, didn't move. He almost lost his grip on her little hand, which could have be problematic, in all that chaos.

He looked at her, a little amazed: her small black figure was oriented towards the group of rowdy fellows that, unaware, were leaving the main street among dirty jokes, thrusts and some reproaches from a couple of indignant women.

“ _Oh, my_ ”.

– Hey – he called her, casually putting on a calm and reassuring smile on his face even before she raised her head to look at him from beneath the darkness of her hood, or so he could suppose – No bother. I'm fine.

Nothing but plain truth; but he would have said so even if he had had to lie. There were the troubles that a boy like him could have caused starting a scuffle, and then there were the troubles that _she_ was able to provoke. That kind of dreadful, extreme troubles lacking any way to be fixed, and that not even Isley would have liked.

But there was a reason, if he trusted Raki enough to let him alone with Priscilla without even blinking: that benign influence that he exercised on her, that faked and firm bond, that serenity that he seemed to instill in her and that got the better of her once more, as it was evident when she nodded slightly and turned her back to the drunk company that was getting into a restaurant. Raki kept smiling, deeply relieved, and hurried to lead himself and her away from there.

He might have been used to sleep on the edge of a blade; he might have even had a plan to break it, in a not so far future.

But this didn't make it less sharp.

 

The sun was starting to approach the line of the horizon. They had kept walking together through ample squares and narrow alleys, always hand in hand, observing with detached glances stands and unknown faces. Now they were again on the main street, in the middle of a crowd that still struggled to dwindle, but a little quieter; maybe this was the only reason for that voice was able to reach his ear.

– Raki!

He stopped at once and turned, looking around above the people surrounding him – sometimes, having become so tall was something to feel lucky about. And eventually he saw him, there, on the right: Isley was on the higher of the three or four steps that seemed to lead to the entrance of a store, his slender and pale figure standing out against the dark rock of the buildings, in the first sunset blazes.

He didn't wave, nor he shout out anything more, but Raki headed towards him without hesitation, making his way through the human flow advancing in the other direction. He took more than he would have expected, especially because he didn't have any intention to loose Priscilla right in that moment, but in the end he caught up with the other young man, climbing on the steps as well to get out of that stream of shopping and games.

Isley had a quite relaxed expression, on that slightly hollowed face of his. But, by that day, Raki simply could not ignore that shade of unreachable, latent, deep mystery that never ceased to veil those ice-colored eyes. How the other humans could not perceive the century-old power laying in that handsome and fair wayfarer, the boy could not comprehend anymore; on the other hand, when he was a kid he had been skillfully deceived himself, so he didn't really have much room to criticize.

Anyways, he was happy to see him, to have found him. Which was an even more profound feeling.

– Glad you were coming this way right now – Isley greeted him, opening in a kind smile, almost too friendly – I think I'm just about to get your birthday present.

Raki frowned – he was born in the fall, and it was barely the beginning of summer, just to mention one of the oddities –, but Isley quickly gave him a short glance much more subtle and eloquent, beginning to turn to enter the shop.

Oh. Playing along. Of course.

Even the kernel of truth underneath acts and shams was weird, though: Isley willing to go and buy around wasn't something that happened every day, so Raki didn't have any problems in showing himself as curious and a little perplex while he followed him inside, together with Priscilla.

He discovered it was a quite dark space, but it smelled good – like iron, wood and steel. Not too difficult to understand why: in place of books or groceries, on the walls were lined swords, axes, daggers and bows. Raki opened his eyes wide, fascinated, not sure if should have been even more astounded or considered it as something he could have expected: if there was one single kind of store in which Isley didn't actually look out of place in his eyes, that for sure would have been an armory, but what exactly...?

– Ah, already back?

A mature and deep voice, yet jovial and merry. It suited well the brawny and bewhiskered man behind the counter.

– Yes, I had luck – Isley smiled, getting closer to him, with an apparently natural courtesy – My brother and sister were just out here.

– Oh, if that's not splendid! – the other congratulated out loud, with such spontaneity, it could have almost been moving – Greetings, lad. Are you enjoying your time in town?

– Sure – Raki answered, smiling back right away, trying to sound completely careless and lighthearted – There's so much to see and to do.

– I hope you'll like what I'm about to show as well, then – Isley replied, putting a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that seemed almost of real brotherly affection, and in a tone that could have appeared sincerely, kindly amused. Then he turned towards the man, a little more serious – May we?

– Of course – he nodded, all pleased and professional, going to move to get out from behind his desk – The day is almost over, isn't it?

– Ah... should we perhaps come back tomorrow morning? – Isley asked readily, in a calm and tranquil, yet perfect imitation of the worried politeness that every fine human would have showed – I don't want to cause too much...

– No, please! This way. No bother!

Isley, without wasting anything more than some thanks and a faint smile, gave Raki sign to follow them with his head, and he obeyed, heading past a series of shelves filled with arrows and throwing knives in display. Priscilla moved silently, always by his side.

He had almost expected Isley to be willing to procure him a new sword, maybe sharper and deadlier. It would have been rather awkward, since Raki would have found himself forced to refuse, either the thing was sentimental or not, but for sure it was the first hypothesis to come to mind, wasn't it? However, they had left the blades area to approach a back room. And when they entered it, at least the chances to guess wrong for a second time decreased until they almost got to zero: Raki found himself surrounded by armors, and for a moment he stopped, looking around with genuine wonder.

He spotted at once one very similar to Galk's: thick, heavy, imposing and massive; then he saw that it actually had a lot of twins, with slightly different helmets or shields or knee-pads, but all sharing the same majestic and a little intimidating appearance. Then there were simpler and lighter models, chain mails, gloves and leg pieces sold alone, in a thousand various materials and styles. Isley and the owner, though, seemed to have a quite precise destination, and Raki had to hurry in order not to be left behind.

Eventually, they stopped in front of a specific mannequin. Isley turned to the boy with an eloquent glance.

– What do you think?

What did he think? Pretty reductive question. Raki understood right away that, among all the models he had seen in that place, that was without any doubt what he could imagine himself wearing most easily.

The metal that was to cover shoulders, arms, chest and hips was dark and shiny, with a resistant aspect, but elegant and lean; the belly, as well as the empty spaces between the different pieces, were instead defended by a simple black chain mail. All the elements together created a very harmonious impression, but also suited for combat, as the armorer began to clarify just in that moment.

– It's perfect for who desires to be agile giving up less protection as possible – he explained, laying his hand on one shining plate – Your brother was telling me that this should be your style, am I correct? Personally, I do believe that you may afford something even heavier, for instance...

– No – Isley cut him off, with calm conviction – I'm more than sure that this will be enough. Right?

Raki hesitated, caught a little bit off guard. It wasn't like he truly didn't know what to reply – he couldn't do anything but blindly trust Isley's judgment in that matter, for reasons both of them knew well –, but that levity that the other was capable to fake was always so... disarming. More than seeing Clare reciting, sometimes much more than the truth of the events.

He couldn't help noticing that he, the human being, the person who should have felt home, reassured by that glimpse of normality, was the one being upset by it the most.

– Sure – he answered – It's... I really do love it, actually.

Isley addressed him with a less ample, but more serious smile. In some weird way, much warmer.

– I think you should try it on, then.

 

It was just a little big on him, but they knew he would have filled it quickly. That he _had_ to fill it quickly.

Admiring himself in the mirror, it was much easier to feel enthusiasm. That truly was one gorgeous model, and it seemed designed just for him: he found just about perfect the way it fit his shoulders and his physique. It made him look more mature, readier to fight that secret war he couldn't avoid and that the world, perhaps, was never going to know. Stronger, more of a warrior.

But while the armorer was lavishing compliments on him and the metal was shimmering, beautiful and shiny, between awe and wonder one thought suddenly hit him – so obvious and important, he felt guilty for not having run upon it earlier.

– Isley – he called, turning to him, sincere concern coloring his face – I... I can't accept it. It must cost a fortune.

Seeing him so shaken, Isley had slightly raised his eyebrows. But he relaxed his expression as soon as he was done talking, while his grey irises filled up with that ironic, calm, uncompromising kindness of his.

– Don't worry – he answered, with the same kind of strange, faint and restrained affection in his voice – It's not a sacrifice, for me.

Raki frowned, not convinced, ready to insist.

– You're very lucky to have such a caring brother, lad – the owner intervened, affably – He's come here thinking about nothing but you, you know?

“ _I used to have a caring brother, in the past. Before..._ ”.

Lucky was a peculiar, very limited word. But he drove away his memories quickly – how ungrateful could he be, getting bitter while hearing those words, finding their darkest side, instead of focusing on who was next to him in the present?

Isley came closer, and looked at him right in the eye. He didn't appear irritated, and much less angry, but Raki understood even before he spoke that any further discussion would have been no use.

– You need it and deserve it. I'm more than glad to buy it for you. One's birthday is a special occasion.

He was good at lying – the best, probably. He did it often, with everyone, even with Priscilla, and his experience rooted in a time so ancient, it seemed eternal. But, acts aside, Raki knew he was his exception, and that he could tell apart the truth from his falsehoods, knowing the heart concealed by that cloak.

And he truly was happy to believe him.

 


	2. The line

“ _Thank you so much, sirs! Have a nice dinner!_ ”.

Human naivety was as sticky as honey: very difficult to get it out of your mind, once you had tasted even the smallest sample of it.

Isley had begun to learn it only recently, actually – Raki, being a kid, hadn't caused him the same impressions, years before; furthermore, he had been an isolated incident in a distant past, when an open and bloody war still absorbed his almost whole attention. But all those men, all those women, all those people that had lived their entire existences within dread for the Yoma and suspicion towards one another in their darkest days, how could they be so blind? And be able to let such ridiculous and poor greetings slip out – “ _Have a nice dinner_ ”?

He would have found it delicately, thinly, wryly amusing, if only his hunger hadn't been such a torment.

– Hey – Raki called, behind him, while they were walking down a quiet narrow street, almost dark in the late dusk. Isley stopped, but didn't turn right away.

Town abodes clumped on each other, like if stone and hearths were really enough to defeat the horror of a blindfolded fate; fields just outside the hamlet; woods; silence broken by the dripping of a brook and by the echoes of the voices behind him. His eyes looked for an invisible horizon and held onto it, his senses fully tense; but... no.

They were not there. Not close, not yet. But far enough, or...?

Raki came up beside him – a movement betrayed by the clatter inside the heavy bag that he had insisted to carry on his shoulders. Isley caught the cheerful and at the same time timorous expression on his face with the corner of his eye.

– I... thanks. I mean it.

Sticky. Sometimes stingy.

Actually, only that child, despite how far he still was from being able to equal him in a sword fight even after all the years of training and teachings, could truly scratch his chest with such simple words – “ _Thanks_ ”. As if Isley needed that money for himself, as if his altruism had been peerless.

But honey, in addition to being viscous, apparently was sweet too, even if he didn't remember: there was something pleasant in the polite, fervent, affectionate spontaneity of that heart-felt gratitude. That smile while seeing himself in a mirror earlier, the one that a human teenager should have allowed himself to have more often, had forced Isley's lips to curve as well, almost without their owner noticing.

In that moment, he just shook his head slightly.

– You're welcome – he answered, calmly – I do hope you know you're exaggerating.

Raki opened his mouth to talk back, but he didn't find the words and closed it. He tried to give him an accusing glance, a bit grieved, a bit demanding, but Isley just found it funny.

He had grown up. He had matured. But he still was so young.

Every now and then, in moments like that, the wind whispered how unfair life had been with him – and Isley hadn't stood against it, and maybe he had and he was still dragging him down. But on the other hand life was  _never_ fair, and despite this fact those eyes as clear as a spring sky hadn't clouded yet: they had become more aware, deeper, calmer, but not darker. And there hadn't been much choice – not after  _Priscilla_ had appointed him to that oppressive role of his, without really realizing it.

Isley sighed, to clear out his mind.

– Let's go. It's time to find a place to sleep.

 

Such place ended up being an ample room on the last story of an inn located in the core of the town. The building was taller than the average and a cool breeze blew from the open window, which Isley appreciated since the first moment, together with the sight of distant mountains. For the rest, nothing distinguished it from spaces in which they had been in the past: there were only a wide bed, wooden furniture, simple vases with some flowers, a couple of couches, a closet, and a table for dinner, that was served shortly after their arrival.

The innkeeper was another of those kind and courteous men which that hamlet seemed to be full of. While knocking at their door and entering the room, he carried with him a tray with three plates loaded with steaming food and a pitcher of water.

Isley couldn't help finding those moments always a little bit irritating, especially since he had ceased feeding himself, but, at the same time, seeing genuine relief and enthusiasm appearing on Raki's face made the pain much milder.

– Here you go, sirs – the bald man was saying, with cheerful good manners, while he was handing out the plates to his guests. Priscilla didn't even raise those empty eyes of hers, while Isley forced out a perfectly faked smile, ignoring the slightly confused look the man had when he glanced at him. Probably for the ones of his race it wasn't hot enough to stay bare-chested yet, but he had decided not to care about it, and he wasn't going to go back.

At the very least, Raki fulfilled impeccably to his natural duty.

– Thank you so much! – he exclaimed, his hand already gripping a fork, his eyes full of that bright, evident, typical joy he used to show when he was truly laid back – It looks delicious!

– Oh, thanks to you, thanks to you – the innkeeper answered at once, with modesty, before peeking at Isley again and getting a... worried expression? What...? – It seems like you really need a good meal, sons. Call me, if you want more.

Oh, that.

His sunken belly, his ribs clearly standing out.

If only that human had known the truth. If only he had been aware of why Priscilla was so tiny, of what she had been _before_ shrinking to that point. If only he had suspected he was certainly more appetizing than any mush of potatoes or glass of wine.

Even Raki's smile had wavered, and Isley was sorry, for this – for having brought him to wane that kind expression of his. For having to force him into speaking with that vague tension in his voice.

– We will – he was answering, with politeness, but a little more detached – Thank you again.

– Nothing, lad, nothing. Enjoy your dinner.

Isley felt relieved when the man left. He leaned on the backrest of the chair, crossing his arms on his chest. He had enough concerns even without altruist meddlers; moreover, instead of beginning to eat with gusto as usual, Raki seemed to swallow his first mouthful unwillingly. And in the instant in which he let slip a distressed and guilty glance towards him, he unmasked himself.

Isley tilted his head to one side, a feeble, tired inquisitiveness in his eyes. Another incredibly peculiar characteristic of human beings was that unshakable stubbornness of theirs. Or determination, whatever you wanted to call it.

It wasn't like Raki was shy all the time, or that he wasn't capable of accepting the nature of the creatures he traveled together with. But it still was something difficult to live with – a dilemma. He was quite good at ignoring it, or so Isley thought, but little was enough to bring a thousand uncertainties back to the surface.

– Is the problem something we have never discussed, or will I have to repeat myself?

Raki almost scowled at him, but Isley didn't mind. He knew that his levity, his indifference, his irony always used to hurt the boy; at the same time, however, he didn't know how else he could try to reassure him – without making him darken, without assuming a grave attitude that didn't belong to him.

The silence and stillness that had crawled in the room where broken by the jingle of the fork that Raki dropped on his plate. Isley had to do his best not to roll his eyes, while those irises, partly suffering, partly gentle, partly serious, stared at him in a sort of sorrowful accusation.

– Try again – the young man said, softly – Please.

Isley shook his head.

There was something amazing, in that willpower, but it wasn't enough to bend nature. He had tried, he really had – he had never dared to touch vegetables or bread, but at least he had asked for rare steaks and meat: disgusting. A single, small bite could burn in his stomach with greater wrath than hunger itself, and than his insulted pride. He had explained it, but Raki didn't want to accept it; intriguing how he did not put the same pressure on Priscilla. There were obvious reasons of fear and danger, sure, but Isley suspected there were deeper ones, and they caused discomfort in his chest: Raki's heart was so kind. His human nature, his sympathy in watching his physique wearing thin little by little, despite knowing it to be the one of a demon, were so intense. Priscilla's size wasn't impressive in the same way.

The bond between them was a deceit, an illusion. To which they held on too tightly.

– It's like you're fading away, Isley. You really have to eat something.

So much anguish. But a monster would have not be called such, if it hadn't been able to smile back to it.

– Starting with who? – he asked, with bitter, discreet irony – You?

Raki didn't show dread, not even for one second. Only the agony of an absolutely unsolvable question, for his conscience.

He was brave. He was exceptional, if you really pondered about it. Actually, the mere idea of raising a finger against him gave Isley creeps and nausea. He could have never. But the mocking, ostensible cruelty of those words hadn't been without a goal, and they both knew it.

Wishing well to an Awakened being meant to hope it would butcher innocents. Yet, that Awakened being had been a teacher, a mentor, a guardian – someone who, in the coldest winter nights, had let a kid find shelter underneath his cloak, warming him in his sleep. Since when they had offered their trust to each other, they had had to accept an eternally scorching compromise, the only solution, which implied both to give up something – food on one hand and unselfishness on the other, and Isley was just trying to push Raki into adhering to his own part of the deal, so that his valuable soul didn't suffer. Hurting him to force him to face the truth and surrender to it: what else could have worked?

Isley gave him one last eloquent look, and then he got up from the table and moved away towards the window. Maybe the pressure would have decreased a little bit this way, he hoped while he was sitting on the windowsill, leaning his back against the jamb, unconcerned about how narrow the space was, fixing his eyes into the black sky.

Indeed, the situation slightly lightened up: he heard Raki resuming eating, with what seemed to be a resigned appetite, but appetite nevertheless. He was sure that the same scene could have repeated itself thousands and thousands times, without the boy being ever truly convinced, but at least for one evening using the weight of reality had worked again. And, anyways, truth was that everything was about to end soon. Real soon.

He felt them.

They were crawling in the distance.

They were coming for him.

Raki was ready. And he could not risk to put him in danger for one selfish whim.

It was time.

Time: another interesting word. Languishing for centuries just to then taste again battles and life, to feel a touch of warmth that he would have never guessed he could have found anew – all in those that in the end were nothing but a few instants, compared to how long he had lived. Letting go had an unpleasant flavor, but it was unavoidable. He wondered if he should have warned Raki that night, but he chose not to: the boy knew already that the moment was close, even if he was not aware of the true reason for it, of the true threat.

For one last night they could keep on pretending, Isley said to himself, while the wind was caressing his hair, left down on his shoulders and chest. He could wait for Raki to finish, for the innkeeper to show up to clear the table and wish them goodnight; let him lie in the bed with Priscilla, covering her with blankets like an actual older brother; smile faintly to him from the window and invite him to sleep without worrying about him; offer him the joy to fall asleep without at least the fear to be abandoned, hoping that no nightmare disturbed that kind heart of his.

 


	3. Monsters

Isley remembered their first journeys together – underneath the dull grey sky of the North, pale and pearly even in the late summer. At the peak of his strength – at the peak of an almost perfect victory –, in the lands he had wandered for his entire existence, a cloak on his shoulders and snow in his hair, he had walked side by side with a weak, naive child full of dreams, and he had started building his whole fate in his mind; Priscilla had escorted them silently, a maiden with alabaster skin to which wayfarers used to smile with gallantry. The last time, instead, happened when the thirteen-year-old kid of those days was now taller and bulkier than him, and held the hand of a little girl in black to which humans, for some odd reason, didn't want to get close anymore; it was beneath the eyes of a blue sky just slightly veiled by humidity, in the sun of what looked like the end of spring, the silence broken only by the creaking of their steps on the road scattered with little stones, and by the pleasant jingling of the armor Raki had decided to wear. There was peace, on those light green fields dotted with flowers and rocks, in the South tepid wind, in the lazy flights of some birds.

And a sudden crossroad, as in every tale of heroes and choices, when Isley stopped, his eyes on the horizon.

– Which way? – Raki asked, with a calm and careless voice, just beside him.

A question like many others. For one of the last answers.

Isley met his sincere and tranquil gaze. He kept his most practical and eloquent expression, and spoke in a firm tone.

– On this road, a few days away on foot, there should be a little village – he started, pointing at the path which slithered on their left getting lost in the mist of a landscape too ample even for his eyes – I suggest you to reach it, before you establish where you want to head next. I'm going to the right.

As he had foreseen, a few seconds were enough before astonishment and dismay filled those bright brown eyes; together with a hint of heartache, maybe.

– W-what...? Isley...

He was not able to hold back a faint smile: human soul was so predictable. And so warm.

– Don't act like we hadn't discuss this before.

A moderate, ironic, almost soft reproach. But Raki turned to face him a little more brusquely than what expected – a sadness so acute and sudden on that face, in those irises always ready to catch on fire, that for a moment it almost hurt.

– I know, but... – he stopped, his voice a little shaky, and he diverted his gaze from his just to look at those shining metal plates on his arms and shoulders like he was lost; a bruised, upset, betrayed awareness colored his features, while their eyes were meeting again – This armor...

Isley's smile became even lighter, but this was just to make his own expression more serious, and kinder.

– Yes – he nodded, calmly – Take it as my last gift. It should serve you well, during your journey.

When he was done talking, a bit of control managed to come back on that fragile and fierce heart: Raki clamped his lips and straightened up, in a more mature stance, even if tense. His disquiet had not disappeared, but at least now he looked ready to listen – to accept an order, if it was given him.

And so Isley spoke with caution, and firmness.

– Remember my words. Trust me. Fate can't be bent; only built, and that's what you've done. Don't forget. Never.

That new light, so beautiful and profound. That pure and bright resolution, serious and touched. An extraordinary boy.

– One day... – he began, with a slight tremor in his limbs – Will I see you again?

Maybe Isley couldn't conceal the flash of melancholy that crossed his face; he widened his smile to prevent it from from vanishing, a shadow clutching his heart.

– Build it – he repeated, hoping that an enigma would hide the weight on his spirit – Not bend it. But be brave, always.

A new wave of feelings washed through that pale face, not exercised enough in lying.

And Isley felt amazement for the first time, when silvery tears filled those eyes still staring at his, and glided quickly down those smooth and innocent cheeks; never, however, as much as when Raki let go of Priscilla's hand to hurl himself towards him, and to wrap him in that embrace that imprinted itself in his heart like a burning mark.

It was tight, and warm. Isley kept still, opening his eyes a little wider, letting Raki's tears pour on his shoulder and then run down his arm, more scorching than the touch of blood, to which his skin was even too used to; he listened to the sobs of a chest ampler than his without moving a muscle; he didn't react to the hands holding on the fabric of his clothes like to an anchor of salvation, or damnation.

What a superb image of illusion.

He forced himself to smile again, although Raki couldn't see him.

– You remember what kind of creature you're hugging, don't you?

But that time, reason was not to prevail.

Raki shook his head and held him tighter, crying on his neck.

And that was when that phantom of a soul in Isley's chest truly shivered. Was it right to call it soul? Or was he deceiving himself? Why did that even matter, when the bite of an unsettled and never forgotten suffering grasped his bowels?

He stared at the blue sky, trying to empty his mind.

He was a monster. Nothing – not Priscilla's death, nor the Organization's ruin, nor the warriors' vanishing – could have changed that simple and unshakable fact.

He had been playing for too long, he said to himself.

He was sorry.

It was even more difficult to accept it when Raki raised his head, when it was possible to see his face, tarnished by tears and weeping – too close, and too human.

– Thank you – the boy murmured, his voice cracking – Thank you.

Isley let a veil of sadness fall on his own eyes.

– You should wait until the end, to thank me.

But Raki shook his head again. He backed up a little bit, letting go of his shoulders, and drying up his cheeks with a hand; he looked at him again, with courage so intense, so full of hope and strength, it could have never been mistaken for despair.

– I'm glad I have traveled with you. I will never forget you. I will... fight. As I know you will.

Sweetness and bitterness. Innocence and destiny. A far too deep humanity.

And Isley softened up – he curved his lips of some miniscule millimeter.

Fighting. A sound that had a more familiar, safer taste.

– You're wise, for someone your age – he observed, regaining quickly control of his irony, of his sharp gaze, of a spirit forged by centuries – Very well, then.

Raki kept staring at him, while too many unsaid words seemed to resonate in the air; but Isley looked down, to find out that Priscilla's overshadowed face was pointed upwards, towards them. Listening.

– Take care of her.

It was strange, how nothing of that sentence had had the tone of sarcasm. But, in the end, the world was not all Raki was going to save.

Once the boy had nodded, serious, Isley took a step back, moving towards his road, to the right. But he decided to turn, one last time, with his most moderate and authentic smile – the one he wanted the young man to carry with him in his heart of gold. He looked at his affected eyes, his face stiffened by emotion, his shining armor.

A fleeting flash of pride, for the warrior he trusted the most in that world on the edge of ruin.

– Be safe, Raki.

And with those last words he left, giving his back to a deceit that had donated him the closest feeling to joy that a monster could have ever felt.

Just in time.

 

 

He had faced them three times already.

When they began to run, far away, but not enough, he stopped, in the middle of the dark forest he had ventured into – feelings just as black entangling in his bowels, while his eyes turned into ice.

The Organization had got busy building fate as well, it seemed; possibility he had been underestimating for too long, because greater plans had occupied his mind while those bastards were keeping on crawling underground, waiting for the best moment to emerge from the mud and grasp his ankles with skeleton hands.

“ _Build, not bend_ ”, he had said. He believed it. But that didn't mean he could not kick and break those sneering skulls trying to bite him. If it hadn't been for them, the farewall weighing on his chest, the smell of tears and everlasting end wouldn't have had any reason to exist, not yet. Time was dripping, hunger was corroding him, but honor and pride were burning: maybe the time to build was not over. Maybe, battle after battle, escape after escape, wound after wound, it would have been possible to formulate a plan, and squash those rabid dogs which dared to hunt him, fleas on a King's cloak.

Until then, however, days were going to be running and fighting, although, besides himself, there was nothing left to protect.

 

Eventually, they arrived, dragging their feet on the musky soil of the undergrowth; creaking, sniffing, wheezing through their fetid teeth, scratching the bark of the trees while they were holding on to it with their claws. They glided, coarse shadows within the greenish darkness, with their sickening sounds, with their distressing and misleading slowness – the prey had been reached, an almost too easy target.

They crawled until they surrounded him, bolting the perimeter of the ample clearing in which he had chosen to await them, one after the other, step after step, while a cloud darkened that sun that already wasn't able to make its way to the ground. Maybe they thought they were smart, but Isley didn't find it a reason to worry: if he had been willing to run away, he would have got better results, didn't they think? No: he knew they would have reached him. He knew they had found him. He knew that by then nothing could have stopped them, except him.

Anger. Repugnance. Disdain.

He could see their horribly stitched eyes, and he could hear their unsteady and famished breaths.

“ _Let's get over with it, whores_ ”.

He suddenly lifted his arm; and, like the blood-thirsty beasts which they were, the eaters jumped out from their shelters made of shadow and horror, grey figures that nothing had of women anymore, and all of the obscene monsters humans used to construct in their nightmares, their yellow and rotten fangs showing through empty and insatiable sneers; but Isley was ready to prove them the worth of a creature truly risen from the blackest of all abysses.

The battle had to end quickly – it didn't matter if he would have consumed the last scraps of his energy: there were better solutions in the future, and he just had to survive long enough to get to them. Therefore, with a flash that dazzled even those horrendously clamped sockets, with an explosion that shook the ground and the very roots of the trees, in a moment of chaos and perfect control, the centaur appeared.

The purest and deepest strength of the Yoma filled every and each of his nerves. One second, and his arms were a bow; the following one, the white and dense brain of the beast in front of him were scattered on the dark green grass, like snow fallen from a filthy sky.

He tried to direct the other darts towards some of her comrades, but they had already got a hold of themselves after their flat, instinctive astonishment, and dodged – so fast, too fast.

And the first bite was already clasping one of his ankles.

“ _Damn it_ ”.

He got rid of the creature with a kick, but three of them were attempting to grab his arms, climbing like dreadful spiders. The bow turned into blades that cut those bodies in half, leaving them plummeting towards the earth; and Isley didn't stop to observe their revolting reforming, their legs growing from their rotten torsos – not while some of those bitches had jumped high enough to reach his stomach, and the others were scratching and mauling his legs, beginning to rip off his flesh.

With a leap of fury, with the extraordinary speed of that immense yet perfect body, Isley tried to shake them off, all of them; there wasn't enough room not to collide against the black trunks of the trees with his side, with such a formidable impact, he uprooted three of them with his weight and cracked two with the brusque movements of an arm and his tail. The forest was too thick for them to fall, at least until the other rows were still holding, but the ground was shaken like it wanted to roar, and the fleas were forced to let go – five new darts were nocked in a blink of an eye: three missed, one perforated a stomach right in its middle, only the fifth hit one head.

“ _Four more. Only four_ ”.

And his legs already ached, and the hunger was more piercing than ever. But one idea took form in his mind, while new hands were already crawling on his body – and he could only hope to use it as best as he could.

Before he was able to even try, those teeth penetrated his skin one hundred, one thousand, endless times. They arrived from too many directions, too agile, too monstrous – he maimed them, he chopped them into pieces, he twisted with all of his rage, and they came back, as if they were unstoppable, their livid lips dripping with saliva that smelled like poison. Not one single feeling of fear, in those chests lacking a heart; nothing of the hesitation, the plans, the bravery and the ardor of the silver-eyed warriors; not one instant of quarter, not one thought which was not of a beast.

He hated them. He hated them with all the fury of a bear tied to a pole and attacked by mutts for the amusement of who was gambling, and with the disdain of a chained prince bit by rats in a humid and festering prison; he hated his helplessness, he hated the anguish of being the prey while for centuries he had done nothing but hunt, he hated kicking like any ordinary foal scared by a snake or tamed by reins; he hated even that hate, that venom corroding him, obfuscating his mind and blending together the impure yokis moving all around him.

Few of his arrows missed, now that the fight was truly flaring up, now that more and more splinters of wood filled the air; but none of them worked, if not to slow them down. His energies abated at every wasted dart, at every bite trying to rip off his own flesh from his bones; but his anger kept burning, minute after minute, until when fate decided to smile at him, until when he was fast enough to crush the grimy head of an eater already lacking legs and arms with one of his hooves: a glimmer of bloody hope, the conviction to be a thousand times worthier than them, the luck of feeling three of them hanging together to one of his sides, trying to dig in his stomach to find his bowels – all on the same flank at the right distance from each other, in the instant in which he realized that his hunger and confusion were almost to the point of becoming unbearable, in the second that found him ready to act for one last, crucial time.

He ignored the other six, too scattered around him, no matter how fiercely they were mauling him; and with all the power of the Abyss, with all his most brutal strength, with the most enormous effort he could request from his muscles and his exceptional nerves, with the speed of the slightest blink of an eye, Isley jumped sideways, throwing his own entire body and weight towards the wisest and most solid trees, forcing them to crumple against their kins – an excruciating pain for his wounded flesh, and the sound of free bugs flattened on black trunks as ancient as the world.

The centaur's long legs bent in the impact, and his knees hit on the ground without him being able to do anything to prevent it: the King of the North collapsed, defeated by his own might, but his arm still raised to protect himself from the ones that could have attacked him from the clearing invaded by branches and leaves and dust.

But he saw them stop, like frozen, for instants in which even the falling of debris from the sky seemed to slow down, as like the first snowflakes of an eternal winter.

Blood dripped from their beastly mouths. Their naked and grey bodies hanged down on their bones of steel.

And then they fled.

Six flashes, six different paths in a forest still shaken from the capitulating of a giant.

Isley instinctively got up on those weak legs that barely managed to support him; he staggered to the middle of the clearing, looking around, feeling them vanish with a speed too vast for his exhausted senses; he gave up before even trying.

There was no way to follow them and destroy them forever. Not yet. Not that time.

And so, as in the most miserable of all dreams, as in the bleakest of all celebrations, as in the most vivid and ruthless feast of death, after the chaos of blood and silent screams, after the thundering of every wound and every punch, and after the shaking of nature and of creatures above it, neither victory or defeat were left.

Only the white, naked, emaciated body of a boy with snowy hair, laying on his side in the dust of a peace omen of war.

 

He didn't bother measuring time.

He didn't count his slow, silent breaths; he didn't listen to the dull beatings of his heart. He let a restless breeze caress him with cold hands, and slivers beneath him sting him: little he cared.

Eventually, he would have got up, of course. That was not the place for him to die, neither was it the moment – not after fighting so briefly; but that rest was inevitable and necessary, despite how much he despised it, despise how pride couldn't allow him to sleep. His vigor was coming back little by little, from recesses of energy he hardly had ever been aware of owning, but he wasn't dumb enough to be willing to waste them too quickly. He would have waited, his eyes closed in order not to see the shadows neither fall nor vanish, without thinking, remembering nor hoping; just waited, until when getting up and beginning to travel again would have been as simple as gripping a sword.

Or such his intentions had been, before destiny decided to offer him with kindness a very much pleasant gift.

The trotting of three horses. Smell of flesh and jingling of stirrups. Voices.

– What the hell had happened here?

– I didn't know the trail interrupted, nowadays...

– Neither did I.

– Now we have to go around this screw-up. We can't go back now!

– There should be a clearing around here, but I doubt it's still there...

– But how is it even possible for trees like these to fall?

– No idea. I didn't know a damn thing.

The rhythmic sound of shod hooves on the hard ground began to get closer, even if following a slow, odd, irregular path, on rocks, roots and stones.

Isley didn't move a muscle; he didn't smile, nor did he fidget. He kept still, without covering himself, without even thinking about getting up and going towards them – not until  _his_ preys, eventually, were moving towards him with such amiable, docile temperament. The fact that they couldn't quit talking, exchanging those empty comments lacking any result but making noise, complaining about their ephemeral efforts, made it even easier to track their steps, without needing any actual concentration.

His heart was as empty as his stomach.

When the humans arrived to the border of the clearing, they stopped, in a moment of amazed, deep silence. Isley knew the reason for the weird orientation of the bent trunks, of how the open space in the forest could still be clear from what was not simple branches or small, annoying rubble, of every single detail of what had happened; but he sure wasn't going to share any of this with who fate had designated to be ignorant.

– What the hell...?

– This is... impossible!

– Hey! Is that a boy?

A new pause, some starts, the neigh of a horse.

– A person, indeed...

– Is he... dead?

– I don't know. We have to check it out. He could have fainted.

– Are you _crazy_? Do you want to get close to something like that?

– What am I supposed to do? Leave him there?

– I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.

– It could be a monster playing dead.

– He could be a human needing aid!

– In this place? In a deserted forest? Without clothes? Don't be an idiot.

– I don't even see blood.

– Let's go, now. Quickly.

– Yes, let's go.

– Do as you wish. But you forget about the bandits that wander around here. I can't leave him there.

One of the horses began to carefully head towards the center of the clearing, while the other two withdrew slightly, even if with evident hesitation.

Nosiness, presumably. And that classic, typical human naivety. Sticky? Sweet? Bitter? No: in that moment, only ridiculously  _pathetic_ .

“ _Neither altruism nor wisdom will save you, today_ ”.

– Hey... can you hear me? – that young and kind voice, loud and secure, rained from above when the presence of the horse loomed over him.

Isley lifted his eyelids. He looked at the shadow of the human with the corner of his eye, without even focusing its feature. He disappeared, or so it seemed.

He was strong enough, for that.

First, it was convenient to make sure that those two smart cowards didn't try to run away galloping. Not that he wouldn't have been able to catch them in any scenario, but really he didn't feel like hunting or moving more than it was indispensable. And so he broke their fragile necks one at a time, with one hand, dragging their bodies to the ground one after the other, among the legs of already terrified horses.

He didn't worry about the scream of horror that their gracious and unselfish fellow let out.

“ _At least you will not live forever with the idea of having doomed them. Which is wrong, moreover_ ”.

An extremely magnanimous present, letting the two corpses fall in the middle of the clearing and skewering his chest with his arm. Or so it was sort of pleasant to think.

The animals fled, pawing the ground, in the forest in which _their_ predators would have killed them sooner or later, especially since the night was fixing to fall. And so all that remained were the thud of Isley's knees, again on the soil, and the first ripping of clothes and flesh.

He fed himself. He ate until only bones and heads with empty eyes were left. He used his hands to open their stomachs and dove his face into them, swallowing barely chewed fragments of organs. They were warm, and burnt down his throat and his belly, intestines, hearts, muscles, skin: tastes never forgotten, and yearned for too long. He covered himself with viscous red, the scent threatened to daze him like liquor used to fog men's minds, and the flavor of iron became more and more intense at every bite. He broke tendons and joints, he burst through ribs and pelvises and nerves, and he didn't leave behind even a strip of flesh attached to the smallest of their phalanxes. He immersed in intoxication, and his hunger seemed to grow instead of being satisfied; he found himself together with things that couldn't even been called wrecks, and he knew he needed more, and more, and more, although he already felt stronger than the Isley that still hadn't fought against the eaters that day. But he felt so _insatiable_ , so eager for that tepid sweetness close to the purest of pleasures, that seeing one thick drop of dark blood gliding from the palm of his hand to his wrist and then along his arm, he couldn't help licking it to drink it; and it was in that moment that a shiver ran down his spine, intense enough to make him tremble, his teeth still pressed against his own flesh.

The smell. That image of himself.

Mixed with an unnatural disgust, that inexplicable relief, blacker than the Abyss.

Being so grateful to a mocking destiny, for Raki had never seen him like that, and never would have.

 

He was going to find a river in which he could clean up; he was going to bring with him one of those men's capes, until when he would have found better clothes; he was going to wander the South, an exiled prince. He was going to keep facing any weapon the Organization had decided to throw against him, and maybe he was even going to pray, for that boy could survive and find the one he was looking for, before entering his last battle.

One memory had been enough to clear his mind, to pull him out of the apathy of a concluded struggle and of the deranged euphoria of an horrific meal: he was much more than all of that. He was a warrior, he was a King. He was plans and living in the shadows. He was vengeance, maybe, and he was the solitude of the ice of mountains too far away for men to know them.

If Raki was going to fight, if one single chance to put back together the shards already withered of the phantom of an ephemeral family still existed, there was no reason for Isley to stop. That boy had already embraced too deeply the line between human and Yoma, dragging the Abyss with him. Divided by war and doom, maybe both would have forgotten, going back to the safety of what they had always believed; or maybe the eyes and the smile of a young hero were all Isley had to wish to see again, through swords and eaters hungry for his flesh.

Maybe, in a monster's way, ready to destroy in order not to be destroyed, and to use the rage and cruelty of nightmares, and to not let anyone crush him, some kind of future was still possible.

In a monster's way, maybe it wasn't so foolish to hope.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the ones who are wondering how Isley had been surviving the eaters for a couple of years while here he's portrayed relatively weak, the only answer I will give is: eating. Who wants to understand, will :P  
> And with this our brief journey together is over. I hope once more that you have found my fanfiction somehow valiant! Hugs and kisses, and thank you for reading.


End file.
